


Sellout

by Hollywithaneye



Series: Gimme Shelter [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollywithaneye/pseuds/Hollywithaneye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Relic. Artifact. Throwback.</i> Something along those lines was what he intended, but the word that kept trying to shove its way to the tip of his tongue was <i>treasure</i>. As if she was something far better than this piece of shit world deserved. But that was the cheesiest fucking thing he’d ever heard, so he shut his trap on the sentiment entirely and shrugged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sellout

**Author's Note:**

> Via an anonymous request: “I was wondering if you have the time, could write a bit about how grateful? Happy? Relieved? MacCready is to find someone who won't screw him over/rob him/throw him to the wolves?”
> 
> This one’s for you, Nonny. It might not have been exactly what you were looking for, but I hope you like it.

“Ok, ok…” Vivian pursed her lips thoughtfully, lapsing into silence for a few moments as she swerved around a pothole in the crumbled roadway. “Have you heard the one about the sign hung up at the brothel?”

He hadn’t, but MacCready would have shaken his head anyways. Mostly because listening to jokes, even ones he already knew, beat the hell out of trudging along the busted highway in silence. Hearing her natter on reminded him that he wasn’t out here alone.

It sure as hell didn’t hurt that her voice sounded like he imagined good whiskey must have once tasted like, all smoky and sweet and smooth at the same time somehow.

“Don’t think so,” he said, sliding a narrowed glance over at her. “This isn’t like that godawful one about the robotic frog, is it?”

Laughter pressed dimples into her russet cheeks. “No. It’s not...Scout’s honor.”

He didn’t have a fucking clue what she meant by that but that was nothing new, and before he could ask she stiffened, her head swiveling toward something up ahead.

“Look alive,” Vivian warned with a jerk of her chin, and the easy grin slipped off her face.

His gaze followed hers, coming to rest on the trio ambling towards them ahead of a laden brahmin, and his attention was snagged by the distinctive green fatigues. “Shi...that’s not good.”

“Problem?”

She framed it as a question but he knew she wasn’t really asking. Vivian was too fucking sharp to miss the tension that starched his back, or the restless way his fingers crept towards the sling that carried his rifle. “You could say that,” he shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he didn’t feel (it was just as much an excuse to break the rigid set of his shoulders as anything). “Gunners. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll be new. Nobody I know.”

She just snorted and planted her feet, standing in the middle of the road as if she owned the whole damned thing. Her arms were akimbo and her hips were cocked in that way he’d begun to figure out was the Vivian equivalent of setting her chin stubbornly. He fucking _hated_ when she did that. For one, it meant nothing but trouble was sure to follow...and two, it made it really damned hard to keep his eyes from drifting towards her ass.

In his defense, though, it was a very nice ass.

“Let’s just detour. Get off the road now and they’ll probably just pass us by,” he tried again, and color him un-fucking-surprised when she just shook her head.

It was pointless now anyways. The Gunners had drawn close enough for him to recognize the haggard features and twice-broken nose of one of them, and vice versa if the way his demeanor sharpened was any clue. Like a dog catching a scent. That might have been what he had hated the most about the fucking Gunners - how much they reminded him of a pack of those mongrels that hunted the wasteland. Lean and hungry and mean as fuck.

“Well, well...if it isn’t the deserting little pissant himself. Hello, MacCready,” drawled Carter as he came to a halt some paces off, his lip curling as if he’d just stepped in a pile of brahmin shit. His fellow Gunner tightened her grip not-so-subtly on the rifle she hoisted, and the poor trader they were guarding was left looking bemused.

 _Hello yourself, fuckface_. That was what he was dying to say, but he ground his teeth together and forced out a simple, “Carter.”

A pair of mirrored glasses hid Vivian’s eyes but he didn't need to see them to feel her curious gaze, heavy on his shoulder as it bounced between the two of them. For once though she kept her peace, and Carter continued on in the silence that had sprung up.

“Winlock said you'd moved on. Seems like he was wrong.” His eyes swept over Vivian, lingering at times, before he turned a toothy grin, laden with meaning, on MacCready. “Or maybe you just found greener pastures, eh?”

He didn’t realize he’d curled his fingers into a fist until he felt his nails biting into his palm. “None of your goddamn business, Carter.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe Barnes told us to keep an eye peeled for you. Maybe he thinks Winlock’s gone too easy on you, that you’re gonna keep right on working in the Commonwealth. Stealing jobs from good Gunners that aren’t gutless wonders,” Carter shot back, thrusting his chin out with a sneer.

“I haven’t been-”

“He works for me,” Vivian broke in, before he could protest any further, and MacCready smothered the groan that threatened. It would have been too goddamned miraculous for her to just not let that little tidbit slip, wouldn’t it? “On retainer, of sorts. Not out taking jobs.”

“That’s still one job too many,” Carter bit out. “I heard there were good caps on your head, if anyone caught you working around these parts.” His hand crept towards the pistol strapped at his hip and MacCready shrugged his own rifle slowly into his hands, trying to decide if he had time to shoot both of the Gunners before they could squeeze a round off.

The trader behind them began to shift uncomfortably, his skin blanching beneath the smudges of dirt and his uneven tan. “Don’t want no trouble,” the man said, his voice wavering slightly in the tense silence that had solidified around them.

MacCready didn’t dare take his eyes off of Carter’s, anxiety skating down his back as the other Gunner slowly flicked her safety off and Carter slowly drew his sidearm. So focused on the two mercs, he almost missed when Vivian took a small step towards the on-edge pair and spread her empty hands slightly in the sort of aw-shucks gesture he’d seen her use so many times.

It worked just often enough that he let himself relax the smallest bit.

“Hey, nobody does.” She held her palms out, fingers spread. Nothing to see here, folks. Then she turned her focus to Carter and he saw the hint of one dark brow rise above her glasses. “Just how many caps are we talking?”

That was the last fucking thing he expected to come out of her mouth just then, and he couldn’t seem to do anything other than gape at Vivian in disbelief, the end of his rifle sagging.

“Plenty.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind parting with some sort of finder’s fee, I’m sure. Right? A few caps, and I’ll just go my merry way without any fuss. You’ll have an easy time nabbing your reward, and your client here doesn't have to be witness to any more...unpleasantness than is necessary.” She tacked on that same winning smile that he’d never been able to not return, white and bright. Quick as lightning flashing across her face, quicker still to blind whatever idiot she’d turned it on.

Maybe he’d been blinking away after-images this whole time.

A few breathless seconds passed, as Carter seemed to weigh her words, glancing between the two of them before coming to some conclusion at last. “That’s some cold shit, woman.” Carter laughed and shook his head, although his aim never wavered enough to give MacCready any sort of view other than down the barrel pointed between his eyes. “You’d make a damn good merc. If you ever get tired of doing whatever it is you do, come look us Gunners up.”

“It’s no skin off my nose. You hired guns are a dime a dozen.” Vivian shrugged, and took another step closer to the Gunners. She cocked her head and seemed to stare at MacCready for a long moment, her eyes hidden behind his own stunned reflection, before she turned away from him entirely. “Besides...he never shuts up.”

“You…” _Bitch._ There were a million other choice words to describe Vivian tumbling over themselves in his mind, but he didn’t even dare to open his mouth again to finish that thought (promise to Duncan be damned) because he was pretty fucking sure that if he did he’d lose whatever was left of his breakfast. He couldn’t have felt sicker to his stomach than if she had actually planted a boot in it.

Back in Goodneighbor, he’d asked about the bullet in his back. How goddamned stupid could he be to think he’d somehow dodged it this time? It always came, and it _always_ fucking hurt.

More so when you didn’t even see it coming.

His brain was screaming at him to do something, to take the shot he’d been contemplating before, but he’d lost the edge of surprise now. Without Vivian and her quick pistol at his side, Carter and the other woman would be all over him before he could finish raising his rifle again. The asinine idea of trying to make a break for it even crossed his mind but he was rooted to the spot, watching with a sort of morbid curiosity as she reached to take the caps Carter was digging out of one of the myriad pouches at his belt with his free hand.

And then somehow, in a blur of motion between one blink and the next, the gun that had been in Carter’s hand was in hers, pressed up against his jaw, and he was howling over the misshapen finger he cradled against his chest. It wasn’t much of an opportunity but MacCready took it, hurriedly sighting down his rifle at the stunned Gunner woman who’d recovered enough to aim right back at him, the both of them locked in some sort of rope-pissing standoff. The brahmin snorted and pawed the ground restlessly, and behind it cowered the trader, his panting breaths echoed by the distressed animal’s lowing.

“You cunt!” Carter bellowed. “You fucking broke something!”

“Sorry,” Vivian said, her voice flat and hard and pretty much the opposite of sorry. “Happens when you get disarmed with your finger on the trigger.” One boot lashed out and knocked Carter’s leg out from under him in his distraction, and he fell to his knees. Over her shoulder, without taking her attention from the man in front of her, she called to the Gunner woman. “Put your gun down, or your partner eats lead.”

For a wild second MacCready thought the woman might try and take her chances. She licked her lips nervously, her gaze flickering around the tableau they all made as if weighing her options, but the sound of Vivian cocking the revolver’s hammer for emphasis seemed to make up her mind at last, and her shoulders slumped. Crouching, she set the rifle at her feet, and he hurried to kick it away, keeping his sights trained on her still.

“Here’s how it’s going down. We keep your guns, and you two keep your lives. Sound like a good deal?” Vivian asked, as calm and cool and sweet as you please, as if she was fucking haggling with Daisy back in Goodneighbor.

“Need the guns to finish the job,” the woman grumbled, and Vivian snorted.

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t got about a dozen more in your packs or on the brahmin.” A small petty smile bloomed on her face. “Probably a stimpack or two for that finger too.”

Grimacing, Carter glanced at his partner before nodding jerkily. Maybe he wasn’t as fucking stupid as he looked.

“Good.” She all but patted him on the head before taking a step back, still sighting down the barrel of the revolver as he clambered to his feet and the trio collected themselves.

“You’re dead, you know?” Carter spat on McCready's shoes as he passed, trailing behind the now-placid brahmin. “A fucking dead man walking. From now on out, you see green, you’d better run.” He leveled a venomous look at Vivian. “The both of you.”

“I’ll take that.” Her lips thinned. “But you tell the Gunners, MacCready is mine. The Vault Dweller’s. And I’ll kill anyone that tries to collect that reward.”

MacCready couldn’t stand to let Carter have the last word. “Shove it si- where the sun don’t shine,” he retorted, still choking on the original _sideways up your own ass_ he’d wanted. Watching them recede as his heart finally began to stop its attempt at clawing its way up his throat.

Jesus, he needed a fucking cigarette.

Slinging the rifle back onto his shoulder he patted down his pockets, fishing out a crumpled pack still half-full of slightly bent Grey Tortoises. He was proud of the fact that his fingers only shook a tiny bit as he lit one and took a drag so fast and deep that he promptly coughed it all back up, eyes watering.

Vivian pounded on his back helpfully, a grin splitting her face. “Hot damn, Mac, that was a close one. I didn’t think he was going to buy that for a second there.”

“Yeah.” The laugh he forced sounded half-assed and weak, still sapped by the lingering nausea that roiled his stomach. The hurt was still too raw and too real, even if it had been just another case of her blowing smoke up someone’s ass. “Close.”

Her smile faded around the edges. “You ok?”

“Fine.”

“Bullshit,” she shot back, not missing a beat. “You like hearing yourself talk too much for one-word answers.”

When the fuck had she gotten such a bead on him? He opened his mouth, and then closed it again on silence, and busied himself with another drag. It was too goddamned embarrassing to admit how much he’d been stung by the thought that she was ready to turn on him.

The quiet stretched on, her brow slowly clouding over as it did like a summer storm building. “You really thought I was serious, didn’t you?” she said at last, an incredulous note sharpening her words. The muscle in her jaw ticked, and he wished she wasn’t wearing those damned glasses. Wished he could see the expression hidden behind them, rather than his own profile.

He got his wish when she tore them off her face and threw them at him, his hands raising far too slowly to keep them from bouncing off his chest and landing at his feet. Too caught up in the way her dark eyes flashed and the first honest emotion he'd seen outta her since that stupid Pulowski shelter. “You know what? Fuck you, MacCready. Just... _fuck you._ ”

Stunned, he watched her stalk away for far too long before dropping the forgotten cigarette and grinding it out beneath his heel, stooping to pluck her glasses from the ground and folding them carefully to slip into a pocket. “Vivian,” he called, drifting after her.

“Can it. Whatever smartass thing you’re going to say, do us both a favor and don’t.”

He didn’t need to see her face this time to tell she was _pissed_ at him. Her back was like a brick wall slammed up between them, and her boots pounded the ground as if it had somehow transgressed. And was it any wonder? They hadn’t been traveling that long together, but he had fucking eyes. He saw how hard she tried to leave each place she left just a little better. How often she put other people before herself. And he had honestly thought, even just for a moment, that she would stab him in the back for a handful of lousy caps.

God, he was a fucking asshole sometimes. Too walled in behind his own shit to see anything else. To see that stumbling into this partnership was the best damn thing that’d happened to him in awhile, and he was completely fucking it up seven ways to Sunday because he had his head so far up his own ass he could almost see daylight.

“Vivian,” he tried again as he caught up to her. “Would you hold up a second?” Reaching out he snagged her elbow.

She slowed, reluctantly, but a scowl still darkened her brow and her eyes refused to meet his as she let him fall into step beside her. “I give the orders around here. And right now I don’t want to discuss this.”

He snorted, just barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “You can’t pull the boss angle on me. Not after…” _You damn near bawled in my arms,_ he wanted to say. _Not after that little display back there._ “Everything.”

It was her turn to snort. “Yes, I can and I will. I’m not going to pretend we’re more than that anymore.”

He couldn’t keep straight what direction her thoughts fucking veered sometimes. “What?”

“You know what they say about liars. They don’t trust anyone because they assume everyone else is a liar too. That’s the same sort of thing that’s going on here, isn’t it?” She finally stopped walking, turning to crowd him angrily and meeting his gaze at last, her stare as black and sharp as bits of obsidian. “You think I’d turn you over, because that’s what you would have done. But what should I expect from the mercenary, right? You’re just looking out for number one.” Her hard expression cracked slightly, and the raw glimpse that peeked through stabbed at him. “Well, like I said...fuck you, MacCready. I would never do that.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he began quietly, yanking the hat from his head and raking a hand through his hair a few times to settle his thoughts. Jamming his cap back over the tousled strands he blew out a slow breath. “Maybe you’re right, maybe I’ve just been watching people shi...crap all over other people for the slightest edge for too long. But you’re wrong about me. I wouldn’t do that. At least, not to you. And I sure as hell should have known that you wouldn’t. I’m just not used to anyone having my back like this.” Saying it out loud put a grin on his face that was sure to get him murdered in the next few seconds, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It felt too damn good to realize the truth of it.

_He wasn’t alone._

She stared up at him for long wordless moments, exposed and yet inscrutable, an open book written in some other language. “Get used to it, then. Or get out.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And quit smiling. You’re supposed to at least pretend to be contrite when you apologize.”

“Right. Not smiling.” It only grew wider, and she made a small sound of annoyance, but he saw the corners of her own lips fight not to turn up as well. Digging out the pair of glasses she’d accosted him with, he unfolded them and perched them back on her nose jauntily. “You forgot those.”

Curls floated above her ears around the frames, like dark clouds, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets before he did something really stupid. Like reach to tuck them away, or see how soft they actually were. “I don’t think they make ‘em like you anymore, Vivian. You’re some kinda…” he trailed off with a shake of his head, realizing too late that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud.

 _Relic. Artifact. Throwback._ Something along those lines was what he intended, but the word that kept trying to shove its way to the tip of his tongue was _treasure._ As if she was something far better than this piece of shit world deserved. But that was the cheesiest fucking thing he’d ever heard, so he shut his trap on the sentiment entirely and shrugged.

The firm line of her mouth softened slightly, her breath leaving on a tiny sound, and he kicked himself for putting those stupid glasses back on her because he’d have given a lot to see the rest of her face right now. He didn’t have a word for whatever stretched between them, just knew it made him shift his weight from foot to foot a couple of times restlessly, and before he could figure out how to label it she opened her mouth and broke it.

“Beat it, we’re closed.”

“What?” He blinked and rocked back on his heels, confused. Hadn’t they sorted this all out? Was she still pissed at him?

She lifted her brows, and this time before she turned away he caught a smile pulling at her lips. “The rest of the joke,” she said, speaking slowly and exaggerated, as if he was dense. “That was the sign at the whorehouse. ‘Beat it, we're closed.’”

He laughed. Of course he fucking laughed, and kept right on doing so as he trudged after her. It was a terrible joke...and yet somehow, at that moment, with relief buoying light in his chest, any joke she'd told would have been greatest one he'd ever heard.


End file.
